


Dreams of the Shire

by AlexStone



Series: Tolkientober [14]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Merrywyn, Tolkientober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:53:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27122083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexStone/pseuds/AlexStone
Summary: Lost in a dream, Merry considers that something may be wrong in the Shire.
Relationships: Merry Brandybuck/Éowyn
Series: Tolkientober [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948141
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	Dreams of the Shire

**Author's Note:**

> Tolkientober Day 20 - 'Where You Would Live in Middle Earth.'
> 
> I've used this prompt as a launch to indulge my Merrywyn heart, as well as dip into some ideas about the Shire that I've been nursing for a while. I have a longer fic in the works, for which this serves as something of a prologue. It can be enjoyed as a solo piece though!

If you were to dream of the Shire, perhaps you may dream of a hobbit hole. Homely, with the scents of cardamon and yeast thick in the air. Hobbit children may run past your feet, to your ear their laughter is indistinguishable from your own. Dreams are tricky like that. Perhaps you may dream of the Green Dragon, a familiar face at the bar, a familiar taste on your lips, the sensation of knowing that you are welcome. Perhaps you may dream of Éowyn Brandybuck, newcomer to the Shire yet all the same in love with it. You may see Éowyn as she was, overalls and tunic, searching for berries on the path to Hobbiton. In this dream, now a memory, you see Éowyn's strong arms, her kind face, her hair beaded with sweat from a day in the summer heat. 

Éowyn crouched to pick blackberries. The overripe skin burst under the weight of her fingers, coating them in deep red. She looked ahead of her path, and saw a hill that overlooked The Old Forest. Days from now, Éowyn would sit on this hill with Merry Brandybuck and watch the sun dip behind the long western road. 

On this day, Éowyn would look at Merry and see a strange look in his eye. They had spent the day visiting the Gardners in Hobbiton, and Merry had insisted they take a detour to sit and watch the sunset. As all lovers do, Éowyn and Merry shared the uncanny ability to feel the other’s mood as if it were their own. 

“What’s wrong, Merry?” Éowyn asked.

“I’ve been thinking about the Shire recently,” Merry spoke carefully, considering each word as if he were discovering them for the first time, “I used to think it was a wonderful place. The most wonderful place in the world. Pippin and I used to tell each other stories about it during our travels, to remember what we were fighting for. I was so in love with the Shire. There aren’t many places like it.”

Merry turned to Éowyn, a shadow falling across his face. “But Éowyn, there are places like the Shire. I’ve seen them. Places where people work hard days in fields, while others live in comfort. The only difference between them is opportunity. Take Sam and Frodo. The only reason Sam can read was because Bilbo taught him. The only reason Bilbo could read was because he didn’t have to work a day in his life. Do you think Hamfast didn’t educate his children out of spite? Éowyn, half of the Shire is named after Pippin’s family. It’s beautiful, but underneath it is just like everywhere else.”

“I understand,” Éowyn put her hand on Merry’s, “Rohan was the same.”

“But everyone in Rohan knew the difference between the haves and have-nots,” Merry’s eyes narrowed, “the Shire doesn’t know, or it doesn’t want to know. No one wants to change the Shire.”

Éowyn looked out over the rolling hills and setting sun. She knew that Merry was right. She had seen the different lives lived in the Shire. She had seen the way hobbits deferred to Pippin without thinking, the children left to play in the fields while their parents worked, the delay as Sam struggled to read an unfamiliar sign. Somehow the Shire made everything right, a touch of magic, against which it became easy to forget the casual injustices of life.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” Merry sighed, resting his head against Éowyn’s shoulder.

“You’re the Master of Buckland,” Éowyn teased, “you’re part of the problem.”

Merry put his hand to his chest and gasped in faux-shock. Éowyn burst out laughing, and in a flash Merry tackled her to the ground. They wrestled each other across the grass and soil, arms and legs entangled, until Éowyn flipped Merry and pinned his arms under her own. Merry pouted and began to complain that he could never outwrestle Éowyn.

“It’s not my fault that I’m bigger and stronger,” Éowyn grinned, before leaning down and kissing her husband. Merry made muffled indignations before kissing in return, lost in the closeness of their hearts. 

All this Éowyn could not have imagined while picking blackberries on the bridleway. The Shire bewitches time, each day the soil from which memory sprouts abundant. In time since, Éowyn would look out of her garden and hear the running waters of the Brandywine, feel its soft magic brush the hair from her brow. She would ride the road from Hobbiton to Bree, where the world is more quiet and still than the highest mountain or deepest ocean. Those were the days before Samwise Gamgee ran for mayor, before choices and hardships, before the Shire came face to face with what it was and what we believed it might become. That story, and the many stories that follow, will arrive in course. For now, as Éowyn wipes blackberries from her fingertips and smells the summer heat, the Shire may be remembered in the manner of a distant lover; close enough in memory as to return, perchance, in dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on twitter at @AlexStoneWriter! Comments are greatly appreciated.
> 
> You can find the full list of Tolkientober prompts here: https://twitter.com/hobbitgay/status/1311350783238045696


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